


The tilbury

by Annevar44



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:11:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annevar44/pseuds/Annevar44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the chapter, "Tempest in a Human Skull".  </p><p>Madeleine - master of hundreds of workers who all look to him! - makes a different choice when the tilbury arrives at his door.  Morning comes; the sun still rises; and life goes on.  His decision doesn't bother him one bit.  I mean it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Good _morning,_ M. Madeleine."

Deschamps slid closer in his slippery way, gliding across the factory floor. He slid so close that Madeleine could not look away from his oiled hair, sidelong smile, and the teeth that were lacquered into unnatural whiteness. 

Madeleine found his foreman fascinating and revolting, like a toad. He could not be fired because he did his job creditably. However, for many years now Madeleine had wished that a morning would come when he would find the man gone - vanished without a word, to some slippery place of no return.

Today, however, he did not feel like that. The painted teeth and familiar oily greeting were, if anything, a comfort. It was a good morning; it was always a good morning. Nothing whatsoever had changed in the night. 

At the long tables, the women were bent over their beadwork, talking amongst themselves while their hands flew. The clatter of beads was familiar. Madeleine took a deep breath and smiled toward the women. The foreman strutted. He gestured grandly at the heaps of finished rosaries at the far end of each table. 

"Four crates' worth, and not yet noon. Show me any foreman in the province who could do better for you, Monsieur!" His tongue came out and he moistened his lips as he eyed the women. Ignoring him, they turned their chapped red faces toward Madeleine like wildflowers straining toward the sun, just as they always did. Their admiration was familiar - it was always this way - and there were times he enjoyed it, but not today. Their eagerness weighed on him oppressively. 

“A word with you,” Madeleine muttered to Deschamps. "In my office." 

As soon as they were alone, he pulled the door closed and shut them in together. Then he blurted out the thought that had occurred to him over breakfast. “I am raising the workers’ salaries. The men’s and the women’s; all stations. All of them.” It was good to say it aloud. He had been fatigued earlier that morning, but now he straightened. Fresh energy rushed through him as he pictured the Bishop nodding gently in approval. 

The foreman gasped and went a little gray. 

“Yours, too, of course,” said Madeleine. 

“Oh, monsieur! You are a generous man!” The fleshy lips stretched lengthwise and between them shone the false whiteness of the teeth.

Feeling simultaneously nauseated and reassured, Madeleine turned away. “I have work at the mairie; I’ll not be staying today," he said. "Is all in order?”

“Always, monsieur.”

On the street there was no trace of mist. It was mid-morning already. He'd slept late, far past his usual hour; he'd been submerged in viscous dreams while dawn had seeped over the hills into town. It had taken Mere Laplante's shouts through the bedroom door to rouse him. He had crawled out of the darkness toward her voice like a man struggling out of the earth. 

Dawn was long past and so the mist, if indeed there had ever been mist, was burned away -- yet the sense of mist, a padded entombment, clung all around him. Sounds reached him as across a great distance. A child’s shout drifted shapeless in the air, and the footfalls of every passerby were muffled and forlorn. His heavy dawn dream still clung stickily to him. He stepped out into the rue d'Argent, frowning as he tried to recall what it had been about. The dream had not been happy but had seemed very important. 

Suddenly a great dark shape reared above him. He stared at it for a moment in confusion. Then he understood. He cried out, threw up an arm, and dove sideways just in time. The wild startled eyes and foam-flecked mouth of a black horse plunged past, missing him by centimeters; he heard the alarmed cry of the driver in the carriage. Madeleine crouched gasping on the side of the road. The hoofbeats clattered past, in time with the pounding of his heart. He leaned his hands against his knees as drops of sweat sprang out on his brow. In his distraction, he had been nearly flattened. This was a sign, wasn't it? A sign from God. A sign of warning and displeasure. 

But he had not been harmed. Danger had threatened, but God had in fact protected him. Everything was all right; he must not give in to morbid fantasy. He pulled himself together and strode on.

More attentive now, his ears picked up a light rattle behind him and he turned. Another carriage was coming up the boulevard, this one drawn by a gray mare. It was, from the sound, not a heavy carriage like the preceding one. He stood in the street and watched as it drew closer. His heart was beginning to thud. It was-- Was it-- A wild laugh bubbled up in his throat, but he bit down on it, tasting salt and iron. A tilbury; yes - what else? He drew himself to the side of the road and leaned against the greasy brickface besides the butcher shop. He shut his eyes as the tilbury rattled by. A chill backwash slid over him as if it carried a foul burden -a dead goat, maybe, or a driver festering with rot. He waited until the sound of the wheels had moved far off, drawing thin in the flattening distance. When at last he opened his eyes, he saw its back end disappearing up ahead, taking the wide right turn toward the harbor district. He was glad when it was out of sight - but the chill stayed with him, and he quickened his step. 

Now he reached the near corner of the town square. The faceless stone statue of the Madonna was before him. Her head was tilted back and her arms were cast upward in her accustomed pose. She was beseeching Heaven, but the artist had given her no mouth with which to scream, and no eyes to weep. 

"Monsieur Madeleine!" Mere Laplante had shouted to him that morning as he slept. “Monsieur! Monsieur?” He had been drowning underground, and her voice had reached him like a tow-line drawing him back to the lighted world. As it dragged him forth, he recognized his bed and his room. He was himself and he was not interred beneath the earth. He had merely caught his head somehow beneath the stifling wool blanket. As he dressed, tugging his clothes over his damp skin, he was fervently sorry for having overslept. The people of his town counted on him. He was a necessary man, a city father. He took his responsibilities seriously. 

At any rate, he assured himself, it was certainly no day to travel.

“You were crying out in your sleep, Monsieur. Are you quite well?”

"Certainly."

She was a good woman, Mere Laplante. This morning she had worn her usual respectable hat over her dust-brown hair, the same as every other morning. She was an excellent housekeeper. 

"You are sure, Monsieur? You do not look entirely well." 

She was irreproachable, but at times he felt inexplicably vexed by her.

As he reached for his coat, she cried out from the front hall. "Heavens, what's this?" Broom in hand, she pointed; her childlike mouth rounded in fright. “Look; we have had robbers!” The door stood ajar, and chill light was silting onto the floorboards. Through the crevice he smelled the scent of wet decaying leaves. Mere Laplante fingered the door-bolt in consternation. “I threw the latch last night; I am sure of it. To think! You could have been killed in your bed. I could have found you thus this morning: cold! with a knife sticking out of your chest!” She thrust her head out and peered up and down the lane.

“It is nothing -- do not be troubled,” Madeleine mumbled. He wanted to shove her out of the way and pull the door shut against the dank thick smell of morning.

But perhaps he spoke too weakly, for Mere Laplante seemed not to hear. She slammed the door herself. Then she strode toward the kitchen with her head wagging in aggrieved wonder.


	2. Chapter 2

The mairie cheered his spirits. He inhaled the familiar scent of dust and drying ink.

At his approach, his attache rose nervously from his desk. Etienne looked rather desperate, which was not unusual. For a moment, Madeleine remembered that he had overslept, and felt guilty, but immediately this feeling changed to irritation at Etienne's timidity. Still, he smiled and greeted the man politely, just like on every other morning. 

Etienne lunged forward and began a plaintive recitation. The directrice of the nursing sisters had come by very early. She was upset that Sister Fidele, one of the youngest and most energetic sisters, had sickened in the night. The order was short-handed, and every bed in the hospital was full, and more linens were needed for bandaging, and more laudanum, and more water, and a maid to stoke the fire to keep the water hot, and they would need more money for more food for the convalescents. There were other things the directrice needed too; quite a number of them - Etienne could not remember them all. The sister had waited for some time, pacing in the outer hallway, because she wished to speak to M. Madeleine himself; when she could wait no longer she went away but she had sworn she would be back directly that afternoon, because she demanded to know at once if M. Madeleine could see a way to-- 

From some distant quarter came the sound of a bell. Its clear, deep ring cleft the still air of the mairie.

 _But was it a bell? Or--_ Madeleine swung about sharply to cast a frightened look over his shoulder.

"M. Madeleine? Are you all right?"

Everything was as always. The large room stood calm and quiet, and beyond the arched front windows lay the boulevard, benign as ever. The sounding bell spun its metallic hum throughout the high-ceilinged hall. Abruptly, the sound ceased. 

Madeleine jerked around to face Etienne again. His throat was constricted as if his collar were suddenly too tight. He said, “Well then! and so I shall endow the hospital with two more beds!” 

Etienne's pale, pinched face registered no more than his usual look of pleading uncertainty. He did not look toward the windows. He did not seem surprised by the unexpected bell. Madeleine looked at him suspiciously. 

Ah, but of course - the bell was not a bell; it was merely the sound of the farrier in his workshop! The man had struck his mighty hammer against an iron rod on the anvil in his forge. The sound was deeply unpleasant, Madeleine thought. But of course horses needed shoes. 

Greatly relieved, Madeleine beamed at Etienne. “Do not worry. Have the sisters draw up a list of what is needed, and reassure them: I will have all the shortages addressed by week’s end.” 

“But Monsieur le maire, the taxes are already collected and all the money promised to other projects.”

“The money will be found,” said Madeleine. This was his way of saying that a certain anonymous benefactor would step forward. This was often the way of things, in Montreuil-sur-Mer.

“Very good, Monsieur.” The ghost of a smile lifted Etienne's sallow cheeks.

Cheerful now, Madeleine closeted himself within his inner office. Today was no different than the day before; tomorrow would be the same. All was in order. He bent and began a letter to the innkeeper of Montfermeil.

However, Madeleine had no ease at putting thoughts to paper, having come to literacy late in life. The Montfermeil matter required an especial delicacy which he lacked. After pondering a while, he thrust back his chair in frustration and looked toward the window. His private office was at the rear of the mairie and overlooked the swelling wheatfields of M. Charbonneau, which on most summer days resembled a rippled sea which stretched to the gentle hilltops and formed an undulating seam where it met the sky. Madeleine was accustomed to resting his eyes on this calm vista. It provided a serene refuge from the occasional burdens and annoyances of his position. 

But the day was windless. Under the unblinking gaze of the sun and the bell of the sky, each stalk stood erect and not a leaf quivered. The field in its stillness seemed today not so much a sea, as a massed formation of eyeless soldiers. 

As he regarded the landscape with a touch of anger, the farrier’s hammer fell again. The iron rang out like a long dying cry. The ranks of wheat-soldiers stood silent as judges. 

Madeleine wrenched his gaze away. He wiped his palms on his handkerchief and gave a little laugh. “By the father, I am foolish,” he thought. He said it aloud, with emphasis: “Foolishness!” Then he adjusted his chair slightly so it angled not towards the window but towards the adjacent wall. He took up his quill again.

The letter to the innkeeper must convey courtesy and authority together, as previous correspondence had revealed the man to be both self-important and obsequious. He started to write. His words did not please him. They were graceless in a way he could not define, so he put the page aside and took out another. He made another false start and set that aside as well. Several more unsatisfactory attempts followed. Crushed wads of paper piled up around him. His fingers were ink-stained; hours were sliding away from him. He glanced toward the window out of habit. The rows upon rows of wheat-soldiers were still where they had been, arrayed implacably against him. He quickly turned away. 

At length, Etienne’s timid knock roused him from his work.

The young man apologized. “M. Scaufflaire has just sent his boy around with a message for you." He handed Madeleine a note. Madeleine thanked him coolly and set it down without glancing at it. "Also, Monsieur," Etienne went on, "about those two beds you plan to endow—“

It sounded again - the clang of the farrier's hammer. The sound sliced through Madeleine and seemed to reverberate inside his head as if it were trapped by the hard bowl of his skull, growing louder and louder until the pain was so great he could barely keep from crying out. " _Six_ beds, you fool!" he hissed. He saw Etienne pale. "Not two! Six! Six, I said!” 

Etienne stammered further apologies and retreated. 

After the boy was gone, Madeleine stared at the closed door. His head had cooled and he felt more like himself. He should not have treated the boy harshly. Well, he thought; it was the fault of the headache; he had not been himself. He wished to explain this to Etienne and beg his pardon, and then everything would be set right. However, there was still that damned letter-- 

He took out a fresh page. His grip was tight on the quill; his fingers ached. The blankness of the paper mocked him. Anything he wrote would sully its pristine condition and fall short of his intentions. 

An indeterminate amount of time passed.

There came another knock at the door. 

This time the knock was firm, not tentative. This time it was not his attaché. He rose and braced his hands against the desk. Then, rapidly and under his breath, he muttered, “Lord, I beseech you, in your goodness and your mercy--” Feeling sick, he straightened himself to his full height. “Enter.” 

Javert filled the doorway. 

He was tall and severe, his uniform faultless as always despite the long journey he had just undertaken. His hat was in his hand. He bowed deeply. “Monsieur Madeleine. Forgive the intrusion. Is the hour too late?”

_Was it? Was the hour too late?_

“Of course not. Come in. Please sit.” He indicated the chair across the desk.

But Javert remained on his feet, head bent in a posture of humility. “I did not wish to keep you waiting for the news. I have been to Arras and given testimony. I did not stay for the verdict, as I saw my duty to return here with all swiftness. However, I can assure you that the blackguard's conviction was a foregone conclusion. You may rest assured that justice has been done.” Javert delivered these words solemnly.

“Ah!” said Madeleine in a faint voice. 

Javert stood unmoving. Perhaps he was waiting to be dismissed. But Madeleine's thoughts were dull and his mind was empty. And so both men stood still and silent, and a ponderous silence afflicted the room.

Finally Javert said, “I must beg your pardon for reminding you. Have you appointed my replacement?"

"Your replacement?" 

"Yes. My replacement. That you may dismiss me for my error. As I confessed to you before my journey.”

These humble words were spoken in a tone of deep resignation. Yet they filled Madeleine with sudden dread. He could not find his tongue; he cast his mind about fruitlessly in search of an answer. Finally he muttered simply: “Javert.” 

“I consider Jacques Lebrun the most able of the senior officers. He has fourteen years. He will serve you faithfully.”

“Javert. Please. I beg you to speak of this no more.”

Javert’s head came up, and Madeleine was not quick enough to turn his gaze away. He was forced to see Javert's face, which was twisted now with anguish. “Monsieur le maire,” Javert said softly. And then, as if tearing the word out of his depths like a barbed hook: _“Please.”_

In agitation, Madeleine cried out, “Why must you speak of this? I tell you, you will not be dismissed! You are a fine officer - exemplary!”

Javert's broad nostrils flared.

Madeleine said loudly, “I insist that you drop this matter. Do this for me-– you must!-- Leave off this foolish talk and let me show you how well I esteem you. I cannot have you think like this. Come, let us make an end of it. In fact I would have you as my guest tonight. Come, yes, you will dine with me at my home! You are a valuable man, an honest man! You will dine with me. There shall be no more talk of your departure.”

He had not planned the words, but as they leapt from his lips he did not regret them. At dinner he and Javert could talk further, and he would make Javert understand that all wrongs could be forgiven. Javert was too hard on himself; that was the problem - he did not understand that all men fell short of perfection. All are born in sin, but God is ever merciful. 

The inspector regarded him for a quiet moment. Then he executed a bow and said in a low voice:

“As you command, Monsieur le maire.” 

When he had gone, the room felt empty. Madeleine stared down at the page in front of him. Several rows of small crosses had been neatly drawn across it. He took up his ink bottle and tipped it slowly so a black lake crawled onto the page and spread outward, vanquishing one by one the rows of crosses in their pale garden.

All at once he realized that the day's light was fading. He was tired. He looked with some amazement at the ink bottle in his hand, then thrust it down and stood to grab his coat. He put his stained hand into his pocket. Etienne, he noticed on his way out, was already gone. The street outside was mired in shadow.


	3. Chapter 3

He and Javert sat at opposite ends of the long table. The bread was fresh and the cheese first-rate. With the soup, Mere Laplante had outdone herself. "The meal is excellent," Madeleine told her as she stepped forward to light the candles. She nodded, but threw a nervous glance at the tall man, his posture rigid and erect, who sat across from her master. She melted away soundlessly, leaving the two of them alone together in the long room. 

They conversed without much difficulty. The talk was of minor police matters. There had been a recent spate of thefts by the docks; Javert had doubled the watch in that area after dark, and Madeleine was glad to hear this. Heavy spring rains had caused flooding in the tenements beside the factory. In the north quarter, there was a matter of roads that badly needed mending. In fact, a gentleman's carriage had recently thrown an axle on the Avenue Blanc where the cobbles had been heaved up by last winter's frosts. It had happened Tuesday last. Javert was quite disturbed over this occurrence. Madeleine agreed it should be tended to. He promised to see to it. Javert nodded and thanked him. Madeleine said Javert was good to have informed him of the problem.

Both men fell silent. Spoons scraped on bowls, and the sounds of tearing and chewing seemed suddenly too loud. Javert shifted in his seat.

Madeleine tried to revive the conversation. "How long is it, Javert, since you were posted here in Montreuil-sur-Mer?”

“Four years, Monsieur.”

“Four years as chief inspector. And you have done a creditable job. In fact, I could not govern here without you.”

Javert did not respond, but stared at his plate. He picked up a heel of bread and tore it into halves and quarters. Madeleine watched. Finally Javert said through his teeth, “It is more than courteous of you to say so, Monsieur le maire.” He set down the mutilated bread, put his hands in his lap and continued to keep his eyes fixed downwards. 

Madeleine said, “Tell me: what can be done to assist your fine men in their work?" His voice was strong and pleasant; it brimmed with confident efficiency. It was the voice of any good mayor to any chief inspector over dinner. "There must be something. Are the police stables well supplied?”

Javert remained silent.

“Perhaps I could write to Paris and insist they send you more officers. Have you any need? Surely that would be welcome.”

“Monsieur le maire,” Javert said. “Any improvements you wish to make will be accepted with gratitude by the officers under your command. But - and you will forgive me for speaking of this again -- you have not yet dismissed me or named a replacement.”

Madeleine laughed. The laugh was bright. It sounded out of place in the narrow, austere dining room, simply furnished and washed in the light of twin candles. The candles loomed between them on the table, tall and proud atop their silver thrones. The candlesticks shone nobly. On the wall above Javert’s head was a crucifix of stark black wood. “Well, we have settled that, Chief Inspector. The matter is finished. More wine? The wine is excellent, I think. You will have more, of course?”

“No, monsieur, thank you. I think not.”

“Ah, very well, as you wish. But it is excellent.” Madeleine lifted his own glass and swirled it, admiring its garnet glow. Then he set it down abruptly before it reached his lips. A splash of red escaped onto the table. “So," he said. "We were speaking of your men. Horses, I imagine, are always useful. Shall we say horses? I can command fine ones, strong and suitable; it will be no trouble whatsoever. Police horses must wear out quickly on these streets.”

“Monsieur le maire—“

“No! no! that is all right. You are quite correct; we will talk no more of horses, or of any police business whatsoever. You are my guest, and we should talk of other things. It is good, do you know, to have your company at my table. I have wanted to ask you to dinner long before this. I am glad it has finally come to pass. Many times I told Mere Laplante that it would be good to have you here to share a meal.” He appealed to the housekeeper, who had just entered from the kitchen. “Mere Laplante, is that not so?”

“As you say,” she muttered. She set down a hank of mutton before each man. 

Another silence followed her departure. She could be heard moving about in the kitchen, and for a time, both men listened to the clash of pots from the other side of the door. At length Madeleine said, “Mere Laplante is tired tonight; she has worked hard on this delicious meal. A good woman, but not one for conversation.” He laughed again, and patted his napkin across his brow. “Now, what shall we talk about?”

“Monsieur le maire—“

“Perhaps," he said quickly, "perhaps we can speak of places we have traveled. You worked in Marseilles, I believe, before your posting here. I myself have never seen it. Did you find it to your liking?”

“Monsieur, it is much like any other large port city. The criminal element is deeply entrenched.”

“Of course, yes – the criminal element! Here in Montreuil-sur-Mer, things are rather tamer than you are accustomed to. But where else have you traveled? You were recently in Arras, were you not? That again is a place I have not seen. Tell me: were the roads smooth, on your journey?"

"They were fair enough, Monsieur. The horses went well, and there were no ruts to speak of. I made good time in both directions."

"Wonderful, good; I am glad of it." He swallowed. "And the courthouse," he went on. "A fine old building, I have heard. Did you not find it so? I am sure I have heard it is handsomely built. Somewhere, I heard that."

This brought a frown to Javert's countenance. "I am afraid I did not notice, Monsieur. My mind was only on the trial. I was determined that my testimony be beyond reproach in this crucial matter. I did not wish to compound my grave error, of which I informed you yesterday, with another."

"Hah! yes, of course. Though there was no error; on that we have agreed. Only a trifling mistake that we will no longer speak of. Now tell me also, for I find myself wondering" -- and here he dropped his voice, which to that point had been rather unnaturally spirited. “Tell me: that man— that man recently on trial— what was your impression of him?”

Javert considered. "A simpleton, Monsieur. Yet his testimony revealed an animal cunning, though age and dissolution have corrupted his faculties.” 

“So you heard his testimony, did you? What-- what did he say?”

“Nothing worth noting. He merely claimed, with mulish obstinacy, that he knew no Valjean, and had been none other than Champmathieu since birth."

“I see. But--" and Madeleine leaned forward. “Did he have family? Were there dependents in the courthouse? Children perhaps - children who will be left wanting, and are in need of a benefactor?" His hands twisted in his napkin as he spoke.

“I believe it was mentioned under examination that he had no relatives living.”

“Ah." Madeleine settled back in his chair. "So there is no one who depends upon him. It is different, of course, when a man's work is necessary to many people besides himself. Listen, Javert, let me say this outright: I would like to arrange for you to receive a promotion."

“Monsieur le maire! I am not deserving of that. On the contrary--”

“All right! We will not quarrel! We will forget about the promotion and not speak any more of unpleasant business. Are you quite sure you will have no more wine? I swear by heaven, it is an excellent vintage. Another glass? A drop? Well, all right; I shall not press you."

"Thank you, Monsieur."

"Your plate is still full. Mere Laplante is an excellent cook. But you do not seem hungry. Ah, well. Perhaps you do not like mutton. In fact, you are right; the meat is not the best. I apologize. You will come again, and it will not be mutton. You will name the dish and Mere Laplante shall prepare it."

"I am sorry, Monsieur le maire. The soup was good. The mutton, too." Javert picked up a ragged bit of bread and took a small bite. Madeleine watched him.

"And this man," he said suddenly. "The one of whom we have been speaking. Tell me: how soon will he be sent on?”

“I imagine he will be transported to Crechy in the morning. A prison caravan is likely to leave from there within a week.”

“Within the week,” Madeleine repeated. “So soon! And yet, it is certain: the man is a scoundrel. He has no family, so no one will grieve for him and no child will be left hungry.”

“Indeed.”

“Society is made better by his removal. You are satisfied of this.”

There was a sound in the silence, a grinding sound, and it came from Javert. “I am satisfied,” he said at last, “that my _final act_ in uniform has been a worthy one. However low I have fallen, in the end I moved to preserve society from a recidivist and a parole-jumper. This is not much - but it is something. I will have that, at least, to look back on.” 

Madeleine’s brow was damp again; he raised his tattered napkin to dry it. “Javert. There must be a promotion for you. I insist upon it. You are an honorable man.” 

The other man set his spoon down on the table.

Suddenly Madeleine gave a cry and looked toward the window. The night was black. He said: “By God. Can horses need shoes at this hour?” 

Javert followed his gaze with a puzzled air. “I -- cannot say, Monsieur.” He glanced about the room. His eyes came to rest on the candlesticks.

Madeleine smiled to see this. “Ah, the candlesticks," he murmured. "Yes, we should look to them. Bright as guiding stars.” 

“They are very handsome. Have they been in your family long?”

“Yes,” said Madeleine. 

“Ah.”

“Actually, no. I spoke mistakenly. They were a gift.”

“They are handsome,” Javert said again.

“Javert. What is it? Is something wrong?” 

“Not at all, Monsieur. Only that it is late. And, if you will permit me to say, I am afraid you are tired. I feel I should be going.”

“No, no. I insist that you stay. Mere Laplante has not yet served the sweet.”

“Very well, Monsieur le maire. I remain under your orders. You have not yet dismissed me. I shall stay.” He made a stiff little bow.

“Javert, you must listen to reason. Why do you not want a promotion? You have always seemed an ambitious man.”

Javert’s face twitched and for a little while he did not answer. Finally he said: “I have been ambitious. My career has been everything to me. Even so, I will not sacrifice honor and justice for my own gain. I wronged a man. I don't seek to spare myself the hard fate I deserve. A man should die before he does so.” 

“Nevertheless!” Madeleine said. His eyes glittered. “I wish you to have a promotion. I insist upon it."

"I cannot permit that, Monsieur."

"In fact, I have decided just this minute that I will write to your M. Chabouillet in Paris. I will tell him of your excellent service. I will do it this very night.”

“Monsieur le maire!" Javert looked aghast. "You must not!”

The air pressed down on him, on both of them; Madeleine could feel its weight penning them together in the stifling room. He flinched and looked again toward the window, this time with a shudder. When he turned back to Javert, he leaned forward and said in a murderous hiss, _“And just who do you think you are, to refuse me?”_

Javert started but his lips did not part; nor did he move.

“You _will_ take a promotion. You _will_ take fresh horses for the police stable. I am the mayor, and you will obey, or I will see to it that--” 

He broke off. Across the table, Javert sat erect: still as stone, cold as glass.

Madeleine gripped the edge of the table.

Javert set a hand on the arm of his chair.

Then Madeleine cried, “All right! All right! What is it you want, Javert? Ask for anything! You did nothing wrong, do you understand me -- and every man can be forgiven, no matter his sin!”

Javert shook his head slowly. _"No."_

“Listen to me, Javert, I beg you. Do you see these candlesticks? They were given to me long ago.” He hurried on. “I did not deserve the gift. In fact, it might be said that I had wronged the man who owned them. I erred. But he gave the candlesticks to me. All things can be forgiven. Do you see how it is? No sin is so terrible that God forsakes us. There is always another chance.”

The inspector regarded him with a clear-eyed, pitiless gaze.

Madeleine swallowed and said in a low voice: "I will tell you a secret. The man who gave them to me: he was a bishop.”

“Indeed."

"Yes, by God, indeed! A bishop. He set his table with silver. Even for an unworthy guest.”

A sharp, alert look crossed Javert’s face. But then he muttered, mostly to himself. “Well, but of course, there are a lot of bishops in this part of France.”

“It was eight years ago." Madeleine's voice was strained and excited; the words tumbled out faster than he could stop them. "I came to his town. I had no place else to stay.”

Javert pushed back his chair. He said, “You were a man of affairs. You had business in that town, I am sure.

“A knapsack and a thorn stick; that's all I carried. The sky was black with a coming storm. Twenty leagues I had walked that day, and both the inns barred their doors against me."

Javert stiffened. "I suppose they were full. They had no rooms free that night.”

"They were not full. That is not how it was."

“I am afraid I must be going, Monsieur le maire. I must go this minute." Javert held his chin high and rigid, but his face had gone pale. "The hour is late.”

“No! You will not go so soon! I must show you these candlesticks. Look, take them; see what fine silver it is. You can see the stamp--”

“No! No, monsieur; I do not wish to see." He had, in fact, turned his head away in a violent movement. "It is quite late, as I said, and I must be going.”

“You must look, see here - just for a moment—“

“No! I will not look!”

“The letter D! right here, stamped by the smith who poured it. D, for the silver service of the Bishop of--"

Javert leaped up. “No! I have no interest in silver, in bishops or thorn sticks! Monsieur, you must dismiss me. There is a right way to go about these things. I have confessed my error. I insulted a superior. I am not fit to serve here and you must do it; dismiss me immediately!” He took a step back, and then another.

Madeleine advanced on him. Sweat was now rolling from his forehead. The candlestick was in his grip and its metal shone, in fact it flamed infernally bright; it was more than his eyes could bear. "Look," he said. "God damn you; you will look!" 

Javert retreated until his back met the wall. Madeleine smiled hugely. He raised the candlestick higher. “You must take this,” he whispered. "A gift. It is not meant for me anymore. I mean to make you take it."

Javert flicked his eyes to the left and right. “No, Monsieur. Please, Monsieur."

“Yes. You will take it. You will take it from my very hand. And then you will see that we are not so different. That all crimes can be forgiven. God can do that for us both.”

“No,” said Javert. Even though he spoke softly, his words seemed to carry the ringing terrible note of iron striking iron. "Crime must never be forgiven. The guilty must pay for their foul deeds. God sees all. God demands justice."

"All crimes can be forgiven! Please, Javert – say it! Admit that it is so!" The bell sounded again. _No-- not the bell-- not the farrier--_

Choking, he clutched at his collar. He tore at his cravat, ripped open the shirt so the tattered fabric hung in strips at his neck. "Say it," he cried out. "Say there is forgiveness, that God will show mercy to us both - for any error - for anything at all - even for a false accusation - even for the destruction of an innocent life!”

“M. le maire,” Javert said. He had drawn himself up. His look of fear and uncertainty was gone, and now he seemed completely master of himself. “It is I who must write to M. Chabouillet. I will declare my sins to him. There will be no mercy, because no mercy is deserved. A man was wronged. For this, there must be justice.”

Madeleine gave a cry and lunged forward, swinging the candlestick down across Javert's skull and then leaping upon him, bringing the two of them crashing down together. The candle jarred loose and rolled away, its flame extinguished. Javert was pinned beneath him. Yet even like this, the man's face remained stony and unyielding in its judgment. A hot white madness gripped Madeleine. He pressed the knobbed rod of silver across the unprotected flesh of Javert's throat. Yes, there was forgiveness! there _was!_ there _must be!_ He shouted, "Admit that it is so-- that God is merciful!" 

Javert's eyes bulged, and his trapped body jerked and struggled under Madeleine's own. His mouth gaped, but he made no sound; he would not answer. Obstinacy was what it was - defiance; a taunt; a refusal to admit error! It was more than any man could bear. _God was merciful!_ Madeleine made a wild, inarticulate sound of rage as he pressed down harder on the silver candlestick.

Javert heaved himself upward. Writhing, he was able to get one arm free - and before Madeleine could prevent it, a blow crashed against his forearm and a wave of agonizing sparks made him cry out and turned his hand nerveless. His grip fell open helplessly. The candlestick clattered to the floor, and he howled and scrabbled after it. With his one good hand he seized it.

"Wait!" he shouted, turning back. But it was too late; Javert was already up, already dashing down the hall. Madeleine heard the latch thrown back. The front door slammed. "No, Javert, please!" he screamed. "Please! Come back!"

Silence.

He remained on his knees. The house was still. 

Out in the night, a wail rose. It began low but it soared high and higher, finally breaking into a cascade of choked sobs that fell and seemed to shatter against the outer walls of his home. _"My God,"_ Madeleine heard - and it was Javert's voice, but hoarse and damaged and anguished. _"My God, it cannot be. It cannot be!_ " Madeleine shrank into himself, hunching his shoulders up and drawing in his knees. He heard Javert's footsteps plunge away up the street.

And then, off in the distance came again the other sound. He put his hands to his throat and tore at his flesh. Frantically he felt for the iron collar - his fingers could not find it but he knew that it was there, because its familiar weight was dragging heavily at his neck and choking off his breath. Perdition was at hand. All that remained was the sealing of the rivets. That would take only a few blows from the blacksmith's hammer and then he would be finished. He would be damned forever. 

Clutching the dented candlestick to his chest, he crouched in the half-darkness, shivering. Above him on the table lay ruins: two hanks of cold wet mutton, barely touched, in puddles of congealing grease; a tortured heel of bread, a spreading garnet stain. He sobbed as he waited. And the clang of the smith's hammer grew louder, and closer now, and louder still, as it traveled fluidly up the dark street toward his door.


End file.
